Chapter 2: The Girl He Couldn’t Save

A sudden cold wind picked up outside the window, but inside, the room felt as warm as spring.

The radiator rattled, pushing heat into the living room until the windows fogged over. Outside, oak branches scraped the glass—a Savannah winter that could chill you to the bone. But inside, the air was almost stifling, too safe, too far from whatever waited out there.

The man on the sofa across from me wore a suit and tie, tall and slender.

Caleb always dressed like he was headed to court, even at home. His navy jacket was tossed over the couch arm, sleeves rolled up to reveal his father’s fancy watch. He looked every bit the Southern gentleman—except for that haunted, tired look in his eyes.

His face was still as sharply defined and striking as it had been at eighteen.

The same stubborn jaw, the same set mouth. Only now, there was a tension there—a heaviness that hadn’t existed when we were just kids sneaking out for late-night milkshakes at Leopold’s. He looked older, but not less handsome—just more complicated.

Only the fresh wound at his temple looked especially out of place.

A red gash, raw and angry, glared against his pale skin. The bandage was crooked and too tight, like it had been slapped on in a hurry. He looked less invincible than ever.

An hour earlier, I’d gotten a call from the police station.

I’d been sorting through files, a half-empty mug of chamomile on the table, when the phone rang. The officer was polite, almost apologetic. Caleb’s name made my chest clench, dredging up that old mix of irritation and worry I could never shake.

Caleb Preston had gotten into a fight.

I wasn’t shocked—Caleb was always cool-headed, but lately he’d been running on edge. The thought of him trading punches in some neon-lit dive bar was both ridiculous and somehow inevitable. Of course he had.

When I arrived, a woman was holding his face, tending to his wound with careful hands.

Her touch was gentle, but she was trembling. She dabbed at the cut with the kind of nervousness you see in someone not used to blood or violence. She looked up as I stepped in, her face pale and worried.

I recognized her immediately.

Lillian Hayes. The years had been kind to her. She’d grown into those big brown eyes and the shy smile that used to peek from behind stacks of library books. She still wore her hair in a low, soft ponytail, still looked like she belonged somewhere quieter than here.

Lillian Hayes, our high school classmate.

Even now, she hadn’t changed much. That determined chin, that gentle way of moving that made people want to shield her. I remembered how she’d always offer her notes to anyone, how she’d hum quietly when she thought no one was listening.

When she saw me, she recoiled like a startled bird.

Her hands jerked away from Caleb’s face, eyes wide and skittish. Her eyes darted to mine, and I saw in them the same raw fear I remembered from high school. I wanted to say something—anything—but the words stuck. She looked ready to bolt, like she might take off down the hall any second.

Caleb immediately stepped in front of her and said, displeased, "She’s jumpy, alright? Just—go easy."

He moved between us with a protective edge I hadn’t heard in years. Something twisted inside me. He was always the hero in someone else’s story—never mine. His posture was rigid, jaw set like he was daring me to cross a line.

I said nothing and followed the officer to handle the paperwork.

The station was as drab as I remembered—gray cinderblock walls, fluorescent lights, and that ever-present smell of burnt coffee. I kept my answers clipped and formal, avoiding the waiting area where Caleb and Lillian sat. Their story was unfolding just out of sight—a silent movie I couldn’t pause or rewind.

When I came back, Lillian was already gone.

All that lingered was the faint scent of her perfume and the shape of her on the vinyl seat beside Caleb. He was staring at the floor, fingers tapping a restless rhythm. Whatever they’d said, I’d never know.

On the way home, Caleb didn’t say a word. He spent the entire ride on the phone.

The silence pressed between us, heavy as a thundercloud, broken only by the distant buzz of Caleb’s phone. His voice was low, private, sentences clipped—every now and then a soft chuckle that sounded nothing like the man I’d known. I watched the city lights blur past, wondering when we’d started feeling like strangers.

Even now, he was coaxing the woman on the other end, his voice gentle.

He murmured reassurances, soft encouragements, pausing to listen as if she was the only person in the world. His whole demeanor softened—patient, careful—the kind of attention that stings when you realize it’s never been for you.

I had never seen this side of Caleb before.

It was like peeking through a window at a private moment—a glimpse of the man he was with someone else. I felt a sharp pang—envy, maybe, or just that dull ache of realizing how little we’d really shared.

His eyes and expression were soft, indulgent, completely focused.

He cradled the phone, gaze fixed on the dashboard, lips turned up in a small, secret smile. It was the kind of look you save for someone you love, or someone you wish you could love out loud.

He gave all his patience to Lillian.

Every word, every pause, every bit of himself—he gave to her. For a second, I wondered what it would be like to be on the receiving end of that kind of devotion, and why it had never been me.

It was at that moment the thought of divorce crossed my mind.

I watched the moss-draped trees slip past in the darkness, and realized I was already halfway gone. The decision felt sudden and inevitable—like the sky cracking open before a thunderstorm you’d sensed for miles.